


Your Touch Burns Like the Rising Sun

by darrinya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Times, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Past Child Abuse, Referenced Torture, Unreliable Narrator, but it gets better!! i P R O M I S E, draco is homeless for a bit, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrinya/pseuds/darrinya
Summary: When Potter touches Draco, it’s like being touched by the sun.In other words, five times Potter touches Draco, and one time Draco touches Harry.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 168





	Your Touch Burns Like the Rising Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely graymatters.tumblr.com for editing!
> 
> No, I don't support JKR's views, thanks for asking. It should be pretty obvious since I'm writing queer af fanfic but just so we're clear... ;)

The first time Potter touches Draco (truly, properly touches him in a way that has nothing to do with the threats and curses that pervaded their Hogwarts years), it’s at the end of Draco’s trial. Potter offers Draco his hand, and Draco stares at it stupidly for a solid five seconds.

He _has_ to shake Potter’s hand. Potter just convinced a jury of witches and wizards—who would like to chop Draco up into little pieces and boil him in wax—to clear him of almost all charges. Draco got off with a light slap to the wrist and a two-year house arrest.

He has to shake Potter’s hand because the world is watching. It will seem so ungrateful if Draco doesn’t.

(They’ll send him back to Azkaban; they’ll send him back to Azkaban; _they’ll send him back to—)_

Draco grasps Potter’s hand for a brief second, then flees from the courtroom.

His hand is still burning hours later.

Draco wants to chop his hand off. He wants to chop _Harry Potter’s_ hand off so that the Chosen One can’t burden another poor unfortunate soul with his cursed physical contact.

.

The second time Potter touches him is a moment that Draco would like Obliviated from both of their memories.

His house arrest is over, but sometimes Draco still feels like he’s trapped. He’s out of money (out of time, out of help, out of friends), and he has nowhere to go.

He doesn’t blame Pansy and Blaise. Draco knows that they’re dealing with their own consequences and issues. Pansy and Blaise are barely able to keep their heads above water, let alone help Draco as well.

(Except Draco isn’t treading water. He’s drowning, and he _deserves_ to drown, and—)

Draco slams into a wizard and knocks him to the ground. A crunch snaps in Draco’s ears, and Draco’s stomach fills with dread.

Potter is now on the ground, staring at his broken glasses with faint surprise.

Draco opens his mouth to say that he’s sorry, that he never meant to knock Potter over, that he wasn’t watching where he was going, that he’s _sorry._

_(I’m sorry; I’m sorry; please don’t send me back to Azkaban; please don’t—)_

His mind always jumps to Azkaban now, no matter how miniscule the offense.

“Watch where you’re going,” Potter snaps, climbing to his feet.

Draco instinctively reaches for his wand to repair Potter’s glasses. Except he doesn’t have his wand because Potter didn’t give it back after the trial, and no one will sell him a new one, and—

Potter brushes past Draco without a second glance. Draco’s entire body is on fire now, as if he’s back in the Manor with Voldemort, with Aunt Bella standing over him, hissing foul threats as she casts stinging hex after—

No. Draco is in Diagon Alley. He’s in Diagon Alley, and everyone is either pointedly staring or ignoring his presence completely, and Aunt Bella is dead.

His hands won’t stop shaking.

Draco abandons his shopping trip and flees home.

He stands under the cold spray of his shower, but his skin still feels feverish where Potter’s body touched his.

Did Potter hex him? Did Potter curse him?

This isn’t normal, to feel like he’s about to have a mental breakdown just because—

Just because he slammed the Chosen One to the ground in front of a crowd of wizards. The same Chosen One who got him out of a life sentence in Azkaban.

Draco rests his forehead against the slick, cold wall and bites back a scream. He probably isn’t freaking out enough.

.

The third time Potter touches Draco is after Draco sells the Manor.

“But why, Draco?” Narcissa asks, aghast. She and Draco sit in what passes as her sitting room in her tiny flat in London.

“You don’t live there anymore,” says Draco. “And I don’t want to, either.”

“That doesn’t mean you should sell it,” Narcissa says. She’s so upset that she doesn’t ask Draco if he wants more tea.

“It’s too expensive to maintain,” Draco says.

“It’s our ancestral home,” Narcissa says.

Draco stares at the floor next to her feet. He doesn’t know how to explain anything.

The Manor passed to Draco after Lucius’s death in Azkaban, but—

The Manor is tainted. Every room is stained with the screams and blood of the Dark Lord’s victims, of the shaking terror that pervaded Draco whenever he ran to hide, of Aunt Bella leaning over him with her wand tapping against his collarbone. There is no room free of Draco’s panic or sins.

Draco says coldly, “If you care so much, you can just buy it from me.”

Narcissa looks at him with tears glistening in her eyes. Draco always thought tears softened another person’s face, but Narcissa looks so hard right now, with her jaw tight and lips pressed together.

“This is how you treat me?” Narcissa whispers. “After everything?”

“Consider it a thank you gift,” Draco says.

Narcissa does not invite Draco to come again.

Draco finds himself wandering London at night.

He needs to rent a flat. He needs to get a job. He needs to find a way to repair all the damage his family inflicted during the war.

Three things that are so impossible for Draco to even think about.

Draco is going to have to talk to people. He’s going to have to pretend to be a decent, functional human being who isn’t a racist, worthless waste of magic.

He’s not racist anymore. He thinks. At least, he’s trying not to be.

Draco stumbles and lurches toward the ground.

It’s his fault. Draco should know by now that he cannot ever forget to pay attention to his surroundings. He does not have the luxury of thought when he’s in public—all attention has to be devoted to watching everything and everyone.

If he were paying attention, he would have noticed the witch slipping her wand out from her robes and pointing it at his feet. But he didn’t, so now he’s falling.

Rough hands catch him by his elbows, and Draco finds himself half-propped up at an awkward angle.

Draco can’t move. He can’t even look up because he knows who he will see, because the memory of the burning sensation of these rough hands has been branded into his memory.

“You, uh,” Potter starts to say, “you okay?”

Draco stares at the tips of Potter’s shoes. He waits for the inevitable, for Potter to throw him to the pavement and kick him until he is bloody and broken.

Potter pushes Draco gently to a normal standing position.

“Did they cut off your tongue or something?” Potter asks, his voice somewhere in between irritation and humor.

Draco tries not to flinch. He really does, but he can’t stop thinking about men grabbing him by his robes and slamming him against the wall and saying, _You don’t deserve to talk; you don’t deserve to even have a tongue; we might as well just—_

Draco should pull away from Potter. He needs to get away before Potter remembers how much he hates Draco.

But it’s like he’s trapped in one spot, in one moment. Potter’s touch spreads through Draco’s skin and poisoning his blood.

“Are you okay?” Potter asks again.

“I’m just fantastic,” Draco sneers, wrenching away.

“You look kinda pale,” Potter observes.

“Why do you care?” Draco explodes.

Something in Potter’s eyes shuts off. He smiles mechanically.

“Right,” Potter says. “Sorry for trying to be a semi-nice person.”

Draco runs before Potter can say anything else.

.

The fourth time that Potter touches him is one of the most humiliating days of Draco’s life.

He’s so cold.

He can’t find a job or a place to stay, and his mother isn’t returning any of his owls.

He shouldn’t have sold the manor. He knows that he screwed up, but he does not know how to fix anything.

He could get a Muggle job, perhaps. No one knows him out there.

Except he doesn’t have the references or a Muggle education necessary for a job.

Draco thinks he might have a fever. He can’t really tell because his hands are the same temperature as his forehead, and none of the Healers will admit him.

He could go to a Muggle doctor, but he’s pretty sure that costs money. He doesn’t have money (Muggle or wizard).

He’s standing in a Muggle shop, more for warmth than anything. He has been staring at the same bag of crisps for the past five minutes, and the workers are starting to watch him with suspicion.

“Do you need help finding anything?” one girl asks.

“I’m—“ _hungry and tired and cold_ “—fine. I’m just—“

“Okay, well, we’re closing now, so you need to leave if you aren’t going to buy anything,” the girl says.

She’s just doing her job.

Draco walks out of the shop, shaking slightly. He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He could find Blaise or Pansy. Maybe they’ll feel sorry for Draco after all this time. He could crash on their couch.

Except he doesn’t know where they are, and he can’t afford to send another owl.

Draco sinks to the ground, his back against the wall, his hands gripping his hair tightly. He can’t stand up. He’s so shaky, and his head hurts, and he doesn’t know where to go—

“Malfoy?”

Draco buries his face in his knees. He’s hallucinating now. He has to be, because there is no way Potter could be standing over him, concern in his voice.

Potter rests his hand on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco freezes.

It’s like being touched by the sun.

“Are you sick?” Potter asks hesitantly. “Do you need—do you need a Healer?”

Draco can’t think of anything to say. Potter’s hand is on Draco’s shoulder, and now his other hand is on Draco’s forehead.

“I think you have a fever,” Potter says.

“The Healers won’t—“

The words get stuck in Draco’s throat, and he can’t quite remember the exact thing he was going to say. Potter’s hands are still on Draco, and it’s been so long since anyone has touched him.

It’s not real. It’s some kind of cruel trick of Draco’s delusional mind because now Potter is guiding Draco to his feet. Gently. Draco can’t remember the last time anyone was gentle with him.

“I’m gonna take you to my flat if that’s okay,” Potter says. “I have some potions that could help.”

Draco nods dumbly because if he’s hallucinating, he might as well convince himself that he’s warm.

Potter side-apparates Draco to his place and directs Draco to the couch.

He gives Draco a fluffy blanket that’s heavy around Draco’s shoulders. A potion. Tea.

Draco can’t stop shivering.

“Hungry?” Potter asks.

“Thought you hated me,” Draco says, his head fuzzy.

Potter pauses.

“I don’t—particularly like you, I suppose. But I think you’ve—you’ve served your time. I’m not going to keep punishing you. Plus, you’re sick.”

Draco closes his eyes and burrows into the blanket, curling up on the couch. Potter brushes back Draco’s hair, checking his forehead once more.

It’s clinical. It’s nothing. It doesn’t imply any affection.

But Draco still finds himself leaning into Potter’s touch against his will.

“I don’t wanna wake up,” Draco mumbles, because that will mean back to the cold, to the emptiness inside, to the people that spit on him in the streets.

He deserves it. He knows that, but he’s so tired of not being able to do anything about it.

“You haven’t fallen asleep,” Potter says, his hand still resting on Draco’s forehead.

.

Draco wakes up in the morning, surrounded by fluff and warmth.

He’s still on Potter’s couch.

It wasn’t a dream or a hallucination.

Draco scrambles to his feet, and Potter looks at him from his seat in the kitchen. Draco smells the bacon before he sees it, and his stomach twists painfully.

“You’re awake,” Potter says, always the one to say the obvious. “Better?”

Draco’s head hurts. He doesn’t understand what Potter is trying to do, and he wishes Potter would just get it over with because Draco is tired of the looming panic that pervades his every thought.

Hex him, swear at him, shove him to the floor—Draco just wants Potter to end Draco’s misery so Draco can go.

Except Draco doesn’t really want to leave because that means the cold streets and an empty stomach and sneers from wizards and witches he doesn’t even know. Better to be bloody in a warm flat than out on the street, his blood freezing on the sidewalk.

“Is there someone you can owl?” Potter asks. “Your mum or whatever?”

Maybe he sees something in Draco’s eyes because, all of a sudden, Potter is looking at him with ill-disguised pity.

Draco feels himself burn with shame.

He’s always burning around Potter.

Potter is a wildfire out of control, consuming everything in his path, and Draco is like a tree. Silent, unmoving, waiting to be consumed.

“I need—“ _to eat, to get a job, to find a place to stay_ “—I need to go,” Draco says dizzily.

“Right,” Potter says awkwardly. Draco can’t move, trapped as he is under Potter’s scrutiny. “Well, I’ll see you.”

Draco stumbles out of Potter’s flat. The wind slices through him, and he immediately regrets it.

He should go back inside. He should—

He can’t ask Potter for anything. He doesn’t deserve anything. He doesn’t—

Draco doesn’t even know what he’s thinking anymore.

.

The fifth time Potter touches Draco is slightly less humiliating than all the other times.

Draco is clean, for one, and wearing proper clothing. He has a job at _The Quibbler_ (ish. Luna gave it to him out of pity).

But every time another witch or wizard looks at him, he feels like he’s eleven years old again, sneering at Ron Weasley for being poor. He’s sixteen, terrified and trying to kill Dumbledore. He’s eighteen, trapped in his shell of a home, haunted by echoes of Voldemort’s presence wherever he goes. He’s twenty-two, shivering on the street, getting turned away from job after job after job.

Draco stands in the corner of a crowded room, his head aching. He doesn’t know why he comes to any of these things. Luna always turns limpid eyes on him and asks him to join her, then flits away about ten minutes in. Draco doesn’t know how to talk to people when he’s left to flounder on his own.

“You look like you need alcohol,” Potter says, his voice dry.

Draco turns to see Potter leaning against the wall.

“I don’t drink,” Draco says.

Potter arches an eyebrow, clearly asking, _Why?_

Draco can remember the first and only time he tried alcohol. It was a bottle of wine that he and Blaise snuck out of Lucius’s extensive reserves. At the time, Draco liked the floaty, giggly feeling that it gave him.

Then in the morning, he wanted to dig a hole to bury himself in. Merlin, he and Blaise were so _stupid._

It’s not that alcohol turned him into someone else. It’s just that it lowered all his filters and showed who he truly was (an idiot).

Draco doesn’t have the luxury that he did as a fifteen year old. He can’t let anyone see the person he is inside. The only things he has left to protect himself are his layers and layers of masks.

“Probably wise,” Potter says once it’s clear Draco isn’t going to answer. “Better for your liver, anyway.”

Draco tries to think of something to keep the conversation going, except he always feels so helpless around Potter.

Potter has only seen Draco at his worst, at the height of Draco’s cowardice and cruelty, at the height of Draco’s pathetic inability to get back on his feet.

Potter steps closer ever so slightly.

“I’m . . . I’m glad you’re okay,” Potter says. “I worried about you.”

“Why?” Draco asks sharply.

“You were so thin,” Potter whispers. Draco feels himself freeze. “Your collarbones were practically poking through your skin, and you—“

“I’m fine now,” Draco says, before Potter can say anything else.

Potter hesitates, then draws a wand from his robes. Panic shoots up Draco’s throat, even though he knows Potter isn’t going to do anything, not now, not during Luna’s party, not when—

Potter offers the wand to Draco.

It’s Draco’s.

“I’m sorry,” Potter says. “I should have given it back a long time ago, but—“

Draco slowly, terrified of looking too eager, takes the wand. Potter offers his hand, and Draco feels like he’s about to walk out of the courtroom once more, everyone’s eyes and cameras trained on him.

Potter’s hand is rough and callused, but so much more alive than anything Draco is used to.

“You’re always so cold,” Potter says.

He brushes Draco’s hair back, and Draco feels like his brain is about to shut down.

_Potter isn’t horrifically ugly._

This thought keeps looping in Draco’s mind, despite any attempts to get rid of it.

Potter rests his hand on Draco’s cheek, and Draco’s fingers close around Potter’s wrist.

Why is it, after all these years, that Potter is the only one to touch Draco first? Salazar, of all people—

Lucius is rolling over in his grave right now. Not that Draco cares. And not like it matters, because Potter isn’t doing anything, and it’s completely normal for Potter’s hand to fit against Draco’s waist and for Draco to slip his fingers through Potter’s hair and—

It’s nice hair, thick and wiry, and _why is Draco thinking about this?_ Why is he _doing_ this? Why is _Potter?_

“Are you drunk?” Draco blurts out, just as Potter starts to lean in.

Potter pulls away, his hands falling from Draco’s skin. Draco hates the way he immediately misses their presence.

“What, I have to be drunk to want to touch you?” Potter demands.

Draco feels the words all jumble in his head and up his throat, blocking any air from getting in.

Hurt and fury flash in Potter’s eyes all at once.

“Forget it,” he spits, and stalks away.

Draco can’t stop his hands from shaking.

.

Draco has gone insane.

That’s the only explanation for why he’s knocking on Potter’s door in the middle of the night, anxiety climbing up his throat.

The door flings open, and Potter stares at Draco, his eyes narrowed.

“You don’t have to be drunk,” Draco says. Salazar, he hates himself for being close to tears. He’s an idiot. _He’s an idiot._ He needs to just stop talking and _go—_ “I didn’t mean it like—I just—no one ever _wants_ to touch me, and you all look at me like I’m some kind of infection, which _I am,_ and I know that I don’t deserve to be touched, so I—“

Potter steps back, holding the door open.

“You gonna let all the cold air come in?” Potter asks.

Draco follows Potter inside, somehow feeling numb and tight and raw at the same time.

“I didn’t think you were drunk,” Draco says, his voice hitching. “I just—I don’t know how to talk to people.”

“What did you mean,” Potter asks, “that you don’t deserve to be touched?”

Draco stares at Potter blankly, waiting for the punchline.

“I—I was a Death Eater,” Draco says.

“You were an idiotic teenager brainwashed by abusive parents.”

Draco flinches. “I wasn’t—they didn’t abuse me—“

Potter rubs his face and sighs. He looks too tired to argue with Draco, which is a rarity in itself.

“Okay. Maybe they didn’t abuse you” —Harry’s tone is heavy with skepticism— “but they definitely screwed up.”

“I chose to take the Mark,” Draco says. “I chose to try to kill Dumbledore.”

“Yeah, well, I chose to cut you up in the boy’s bathroom,” Potter says wearily.

Draco’s mouth feels frozen, as if everything about him is carved from ice.

“You didn’t know what you were doing,” Draco says stiffly.

“You’ve changed,” says Potter. “You’ve grown, and you’re—“

“I’m drowning,” Draco says. “I’m no one. I’m—“

“—beautiful,” Potter finishes, his voice falling to a hushed whisper.

Draco’s eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat.

“You don’t mean that,” Draco says, his voice cracking.

Potter smirks, and Draco wants to wipe it off of his smug, disgusting face.

“Haven’t you heard? I must not tell lies.”

Draco swallows thickly.

“Well, you’re not too traumatizing to look at,” Draco says.

Potter laughs, this awful huffy snort that isn’t a proper laugh at all. Draco hates it.

Draco also wants to be the one who causes that sound for the rest of Potter’s life.

Draco swallows and hesitantly touches Potter’s cheek. It’s warm against his hand, and the rough tickle of stubble brushes against his palm.

Draco is touching Harry, and Harry is leaning into Draco’s hand.

“Do you actually want this?” Draco asks hesitantly.

_Do you really want me?_

In answer, Harry wraps his arms around Draco and rests his cheek against Draco’s chest.

Touching Harry is like caressing a star, a perfect, burning, bright source of light, alone in a black, empty sky.

For the first time in a long time, Draco actually feels warm.

**Author's Note:**

> No keetheth for you because I am evil. ;) Also, Draco is not ready for kisses! All Harry did was hug him, and his brain almost exploded lol
> 
> Leave a comment below or come chat with me on tumblr! darrinya.tumblr.com.


End file.
